


Bad Ideas

by narrowmargins



Category: You (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrowmargins/pseuds/narrowmargins
Summary: Joe has a change of perspective when he spends the night with Forty.
Relationships: Joe Goldberg/Forty Quinn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 164





	Bad Ideas

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the hotel after Forty finishes working on _The Dark Face of Love_ script and admits he thinks he killed his au pair. At this point, of course, Joe doesn’t know that Love is actually the murderous twin. I wanted to explore how Joe might embrace the idea of Forty being similar to him, combining with his urge to be some kind of white knight. In addition, I think it’s interesting to think about whether Joe’s hang-ups about Love’s murders might not apply to Forty (partly due to Joe’s gender stereotyping, and partly because Forty’s narrative about the au pair positions him as going through something that parallels Joe’s experience with Beck). 
> 
> Anyway, enough waffling about my motivations for writing this—here is the smut. Also, for the sake of keeping everything uncontroversially consensual, I’m stipulating that this encounter occurs when the drugs are wearing off.

Forty is heartbreakingly human in Joe’s arms, warm and alive with tear-dampened cheeks.

“You’re forgiven,” Joe says again, with pure sincerity. _You’re forgiven because you didn’t want to kill her_ , Joe thinks. _I know what it’s like to do it even when you don’t want to, Forty—to drown in jealousy and love, rage and fire. You’re like me._

The room is less distorted at the edges now, replaced with a soft glow. Joe’s heart rate is dropping, his hands clean. He feels safe, almost, inhaling the sharp citrus scent of Forty’s shampoo. But the respite is brief, and reality hits Joe like a punch to the ribs. He needs to run. He rubs his hand along Forty’s bare arm once more, then stands up.

“I should go,” he says. “Are you gonna be okay?” 

Forty wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands and sniffs. “Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. At least now you understand why I fell for Candace’s bullshit.” 

Joe pauses. “I do.” 

“She saw a dumb kid who was starving for reassurance. God, I was so fucking transparent.” 

“I get it,” Joe says with a half-shrug. “We’re all just looking for that missing piece. She exploited that in you.” 

“Maybe in you too,” Forty says, a mischievous spark reappearing in his expression. “After all, we _are_ tunnel buddies.” He bursts into sudden, high-pitched giggles, squeezing his eyes shut like he can’t believe how hilarious he is. 

Joe grimaces. “Nice, Forty. Real fucking classy.” 

Forty stands as Joe makes his way to the door. “While we’re at confession, Father,” he says, “I gotta tell you. I asked her, you know. About what it was like with you.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Forty shoots him a wink, calmer now though his eyes are still red-rimmed. “We were sexting and… look, man, I wanted to know. It was too tempting to resist,” he says, holding his hands up as though envisioning a title on a screen. “ _Sordid Tales from Joe Goldberg’s Bed_.” 

“And what did she say?” 

“Pretty much what I expected. That you’re a psycho, but you fuck like a dream.” 

Joe feels a hot flash of flattery. 

“I made her tell me,” Forty continues. “I think she got off on it, actually. I know I did.” 

He pauses, looks straight into Joe’s eyes and doesn’t blink. There’s a recklessness there, yes, but there’s also a glimmer of vulnerability. It dawns on Joe that Forty is admitting something real.

“That’s pretty twisted,” Joe says mildly. He sticks his hands in his pockets, the picture of nonchalance.

Forty ducks his head, then looks up through his lashes and grins. “That’s the appeal, old sport,” he says. “Don’t you want to know what she told me?” 

“Uh, you already gave me the highlights. That’s more than enough.” 

Forty bites his lip. “Amy—Candace—told me that you’re good with your tongue. The best she’s ever had.” 

Joe remembers. Hands tight in his hair, the squeeze of thighs around his face. He swallows. “Forty…” 

“And I know that when someone’s going down on you,” Forty says, his voice rough, “You want them to look you in the eyes when you come.” 

He’s uncoupling Candace from his descriptions, making them abstract so he can inhabit them himself. Lust twists in Joe’s gut at the realization, his mind momentarily taken hostage by an image of Forty lying beneath him. _Focus_ , he tells himself, but his throat feels tight and dry. He scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, stop, I—” 

Forty steps forward, crowding Joe against the door. “I can suck dick with the best of them,” he says, all pretenses dropped. “I could make you forget your fucking _name_ —Joe, Will, _whatever_.”

Joe considers mentioning Love, appealing to Forty’s better nature, re-anchoring him in reality. But he remembers the leer on Forty’s face when he kissed the bride in the bar and knows that he gets off on power because he’s always had so little. Taking something of Love’s would be a source of pride, not of shame—at least at first. 

Forty trails a finger along the edge of Joe’s jaw. Joe’s eyes close involuntarily as heat pools in his stomach. “Sounds like a pretty bad idea,” he says, voice strained.

“I _love_ bad ideas,” Forty says with relish, a low, breathy response that tickles Joe’s cheek.

Joe leans forward a fraction, magnetized, and their noses just barely brush together. Forty takes it as an invitation and surges forward to kiss Joe with frantic, sloppy urgency, hands coming up to cup his face. There’s a brief pause during which Joe simply freezes, mouth slightly open. But then Forty’s tongue is pushing past his lips, and Joe’s skin is tingling under Forty’s hands, and before he has time to make a decision he’s kissing Forty back, deep and dirty, utterly losing himself in it.

It’s unfamiliar to Joe, the rasp of stubble and the coiled strength of a male body pressing against him. But it feels _good_ , he thinks. He’s overwhelmed by the heat of Forty’s bare arms, the way he tongue-fucks Joe’s mouth, one hand slipping down between them so he can rub his palm against Joe’s dick. He’s harder than he realized, harder still once Forty touches him, hips automatically pressing into the touch.

They kiss and kiss, time blurring. Joe pushes his leg between Forty’s thighs to give him something to grind against, made dizzy and manic by Forty’s shamelessness, his desperation. Forty’s erection presses hard and insistent against Joe’s thigh, and it turns him on so much more than he would ever have guessed, makes his heart race and his cheeks burn. He pulls back, panting against Forty’s lips, then gives in to the desire to bite into the smooth skin just above Forty’s collarbone, feeling the way his neck stretches as he moans under his breath. The tang of his sweat is salty on Joe’s tongue, and Joe wants nothing more than to mark him up, to litter him with bruises that bloom purple and red under his skin. But he can’t.

Before the reasons why he can’t start to solidify in Joe’s brain, Forty is sinking to his knees, his parted lips pressed to the thick jut of Joe’s cock through his pants. Joe’s hands curl into fists at his sides as he struggles with the impulse to tug his clothes down and fuck Forty’s mouth.

“Unbuckle for me, Joe,” Forty says. There’s a challenging glint in his eyes, a push to make Joe more than just a passive recipient.

Joe’s fingers shake a little as he goes for his belt, then Forty takes over. He pulls Joe’s pants down to his mid-thighs, cheek nuzzling against the thick line of his erection in his boxers.

“Jesus,” Joe blurts out.

“Huh,” Forty says curiously, a smile tugging at his lips. "You fucking _want_ this." He reaches out and strokes Joe through the thin material, a featherlight touch that makes Joe want to scream. A desperate noise cracks in the back of his throat.

True to form, Forty switches gears in an instant, pulling at Joe’s underwear and going down on him so quickly and deeply that Joe’s knees wobble and his eyes roll back in his head. Forty sucks dick like he does everything else, it turns out, seductively messy and theatrical with an underlying thirst for praise and acceptance. Joe finds himself stroking Forty’s cheekbone, the nape of his neck, watching his eyelids flutter as he leans into the touch. His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue velvety soft when he pulls back to trace the vein running down the side of Joe’s dick. 

Forty strokes him a few times with a slick, tight fist, then licks over the head of his cock and flicks his tongue across Joe’s slit with a smirk before sucking him down again. Joe winds his fingers into the hair at the back of Forty’s head, thrusts into his mouth a little. He feels free to do it, knows Forty will _like_ it, that he won’t pretend or playact or use it as currency. He moans softly around his mouthful, a needy sound, and Joe feels dizzy at being the focus of such pure desire. He can’t think anymore. He’s all rushing blood and surging dopamine, and he can’t remember anything else that matters.

He watches the muscles tense in Forty’s left arm, can’t look away from the sight of him rubbing himself through his jeans with his free hand, his hips shifting in a restless rhythm. _He’s really going to come in his pants, on his knees, with my dick in his mouth,_ Joe realizes.

He is close himself now, so close that his toes are curling in his shoes and his legs are trembling. Even with Forty, Joe knows, it should be common courtesy to warn him, so he taps at Forty’s head and gasps “Hey, fuck, hey, Forty—I’m—” 

Forty pulls off for a second, the slick sound of it obscene. His lips are slick and sticky. “Do it,” he says, eyes flashing, and then he swallows Joe down to the hilt and Joe’s head slams back against the door with the force of how fucking good it feels. Forty gives him ruthlessly deep suction, so transparently _greedy_ for him, his eyes boring into Joe’s with hunger and wicked triumph. It’s less than a minute before Joe is tightening his fist in Forty’s hair and coming down his throat with a strangled cry, his back arching as he pushes his cock deeper into the tight heat of Forty’s mouth. 

Forty sits back on his heels, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. There’s a wet stain spreading across the front of his pants, and he grins up at Joe, shrugging. He doesn’t look in the slightest bit embarrassed. He’s all swollen red lips and flushed cheeks, a sheen of satisfaction in his eyes. Joe stands, breathless, half of his outfit a messy pile around his ankles, one hand braced against the door for support. 

Something strange and perfect clicks into place as their eyes lock. This is Forty, who knows the true story of Joe’s old life—who sees it without being told, even if he doesn’t yet know it’s _Joe’s_ story. Forty, who has done what Joe has done, who knows how it feels to live with having killed someone you loved. Forty, who didn’t ever mean to do that, who wants to be better but is just so lost. Who needs someone to save him from himself.

Sometimes, Joe knows, you’re so busy trying to immerse yourself in the perfect idea of love that you miss what has been right in front of you the whole time. You miss what’s _real_.

He reaches out his hand and helps Forty to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I imagine there aren't many people out there looking for this, but Joe and Forty's dynamic fascinates me and I just really wanted to write something about it.


End file.
